


Lay the Old World to Rest

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Series: Waves on the Shores of Time [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Character of Faith, Crisis of Faith, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Loss of Faith, Matricide, Medical Experimentation, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:51:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7589674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sparrow Killian is the Sole Survivor in a world of the damned.</p><p>Then she finds her mother's pearls...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Desolation

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, suicidal thoughts, violence and fantastic racism, and mentions of medical experimentation. This is the genesis of future!Sparrow in the Undertow universe.

 

In the weeks since emerging from the Vault, killing feral ghouls had become routine for Sparrow Killian. The irradiated humans, brains long since rotted into mindlessness, were but one of many dangers in the Wasteland – but they were amongst the most ubiquitous, unpredictable and heart-wrenching. She’d already killed half of her old neighbours, the other half having died in the Vault when it failed. Sometimes, when the taste of radstorm water was on her tongue and bloatfly maggots being picked from her flesh, she felt the latter were the lucky ones.

            Her current companion was a mercenary named MacCready. He hated ferals with an unholy passion and was now making sure of them. The next step would be to strip them of whatever junk they clung to, remnants of a forgotten past, because finer details like treating the dead with decency were gone in the Wasteland. Sparrow still prayed over them, useless though it was. God had left them because of man’s pride and this was now the Devil’s playground.

            “Huh.” The sniper plucked a string of pearls from the corpse of a female ghoul, still wearing the tattered remnants of a business suit. “Might be worth a bit in Diamond City.”

            Sparrow stared at the pearls. They were fat and gold with a teardrop pendant of a bigger pearl that would have nestled just above the cleavage. “Mac,” she said with a slightly unsteady voice. “Is there a heron etched on the golden clasp?”

            “Heron?” The sniper looked at her oddly.

            “A long-necked, long-beaked, long-legged bird.”

            He examined the clasp minutely. “Yeah.”

            Sparrow held out her hand. “That belonged to my mother.”

            MacCready looked at her for a moment, then studied the ghoul at his feet. Whatever his sharp eyes saw in the rad-swollen features convinced him to toss the pearls at her. Sparrow caught them.

            “Hell, I’m sorry,” he said with a hint of sincerity.

            Sparrow stared down at the ghoul that was her mother. She even recognised the pinstriped pattern on her business suit, the Australian Merino wool one worth its weight in gold. “’As ye sow, so shall ye reap’,” she breathed.

            “Gilly?” These days, she went by her clan name. Sparrow Killian and her world was dead.

            “My mother was one of the great movers and shakers on the East Coast in the pre-War times,” Sparrow explained. “She worked for the military intelligence department and ordered many, many deaths and worse. She was also a great supporter of the Institute.”

            “So it bit her in the backside, huh?” MacCready scratched his goateed chin. “You, uh, want to bury her?”

            That was as close to consideration as she would get from him. “I want to bury them all once you’ve taken what you need from them.”

            The sniper nodded slowly and returned to his looting. After he was done, she buried them with a prayer. A better funeral than her mother had given others.

            When they reached Diamond City, they parted ways, the mercenary returning to Goodneighbour. Whatever debt he owed, it had to be considerable, to require so much loot and caps. They didn’t trade life stories beyond the basics.

            The weight of the pearls in her pocket was a burdensome thing. Once she was in the gates, she walked up to the abandoned western stands and the isolated house there she’d picked the lock on a few months ago. Sparrow hated to deal with residents of Diamond City like Nick Valentine -  the synth copy of a dead friend – and the nosy Piper Wright. Sometimes she wondered why she was still bothering to go through the motions of living when the world around her was dead.

            The abandoned house was dark and dank. Sparrow sat down on the battered couch and pulled out the golden pearls, feeling their cool smoothness as she ran them through her fingers like a rosary.

            Elisabeth Killian had been very proud of her golden Tahitian pearls. Inherited from some Ahern who’d gone to the island nation and made his fortune there, she’d worn them as a symbol of her Boston Brahmin family’s ability to adapt to any situation, a legacy of pride and exploiting others. It made sense her ghoul would cling to them as a keepsake from her dimly remembered life.

            Her mother had reaped what she sowed. And now she was buried as rotten irradiated chunks of flesh whose head had been blown off by a vengeful sniper.

            Elisabeth Killian. Her husband Frances, a rough Irish crime clansman who joined his fortune to hers for his family’s sake. Nate Finlay, who’d been all but chosen for Sparrow after the death of Frances and the car accident that left her with brain damage and half her face missing. Cybernetics took care of that, the infant Institute only happy to oblige their benefactor. Nate was a killer for the government and a very good one.

            She came from a family that helped break the world. And Sparrow still lived, enduring the repercussions of their actions. Shaun, the innocent inheritor of all that sin, was dead and with the Lord. But she was in hell.

            Sparrow studied the pearls and then the hook on the ceiling of the home. She was already damned. She might as well sign the paperwork by committing suicide.

            Then someone knocked on the door. The guards, realising that there was a squatter here?

            She sighed, stood up and went to the door. Opening it, a pair of kindly eyes stared out from a vitiligo-marked face, semi-familiar vestments marking him as what passed for a priest in the Wasteland. Sparrow vaguely recalled the chapel near the entrance to Diamond City.

            “Easy,” he said gently. “I’m not here to cause you trouble.”

            “Then why are you here?” she asked flatly.

            “Because something tells me you need some spiritual counsel, Vault Dweller,” he said gravely. “My name’s Pastor Clements. I follow the New Rite. What’s your name and Rite?”

            “Gealbhan Killian and… fucked if I know. I was Irish Catholic before the world died.”

            Clements nodded. “Old Rite. Not my tradition but I know the basics. At my chapel, we tend to all faiths that follow a higher power.”

            She hadn’t known that about the different Rites. “I assume New Rite is Protestantism?”

            “So I was told by the woman who ordained me. May I come in?”

            Years of courtesy to priests made Sparrow get out of the way. Clements took a seat on the battered couch and gestured for her to sit. She obeyed. He didn’t need to see her kill herself.

            “It’s good to finally meet you, Gealbhan. I’ve seen you around but never had the chance to seek you out.” Clements regarded her calmly. “If the rumours are right, you’re a pre-War survivor.”

            “Yes. I was in a cryo facility where nearly everyone else died of ice damage or suffocation.” Sparrow recited her history tonelessly. “My mother became a feral ghoul today. She got killed by my hired guard.”

            “I don’t know what to say.” Clements’ honesty was better than a platitude.

            “Then don’t say anything. I prayed over her and the other ghouls and buried them.”

            Clements’ eyebrow shot up. “That’s better than most people would do. In Diamond City and elsewhere, folk forget that the feral ghouls and the super mutants were once people and _are_ victims. Show them no mercy for they have none… but mourn for them sincerely and give them last rites. The Lord will take care of them.”

            “Where do the super mutants come from?” The green-muscled things were horrific. To know they’d been people once…

            “According to the Steel Rite, which is what they follow in the south, very nasty scientists created a virus that was meant to make unstoppable warriors for the US government. But the virus turned them into monsters, a sign of man’s hubris and offence against the Creator, and unleashed them on the world to punish humanity.” Clements sighed, studying his hands. “The Steel Rite is… very harsh. It denies the humanity of sentient ghouls and possibly synths. Still, the Brotherhood of Steel has done a lot of good in the Capital Wasteland, the traders say.”

            Sparrow didn’t even know religion had survived the apocalypse, let alone various flavours of it. There were the Children of Atom but they were frankly insane from the rads.

            “I can vouch for the nastiness of the scientists,” Sparrow responded with a grimace. “I underwent a… course of experimental medical treatments at the Commonwealth Institute of Technology. I was one of a few survivors and trust me, they were as fucked up then as they are now.”

            Clements grimaced. “That is terrible. To have to live with that pain…”

            She shrugged. “It was either be silent or get shot in the head. And I would have been a lucky one.”

            “A hard choice.” The pastor shifted a little. “What do you do now?”

            “Scavenge until something kills me, I suppose.” She was too tired to pretend with the priest.

            “Isn’t suicide a sin in the Old Rite?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “It seems to me that being careless with your life in the throes of despair is much the same as eating a bullet.”

            His words hit home. He was right, damn him. The Church had made allowances for those who suffered from mental illness and impaired judgment back in the day. But Sparrow’s judgment was sound despite her rattled brain.

            Clements nodded when he saw her face. “I thought so. You are alive. You survived the horrors of the Institute in this time and the old world. You are articulate and intelligent. There is no reason to be silent now – not if you become so known, so prominent in the Commonwealth, that if the Institute replaces you, everyone would know it immediately.”

            She regarded him strangely. “What’s your point, Pastor?”

            “The Lord saved you for a reason, Gealbhan Killian.” Clements rose to his feet. “Bury the past but don’t forget it.”

            With that sage advice, he nodded and sketched a cross over her head before leaving Sparrow to think.

            She was the last non-ghoul survivor of the old world. She knew, better than most, the sins of the past. She knew the early history of the Institute. Hell, she even knew the old labs were underground, and she couldn’t see the eggheads changing something like that if it still worked.

            Sparrow looked out at the open door, seeing the lights of Diamond City flicker on as the dusk gathered blue over the Commonwealth. Perhaps there was a reason she was spared. Perhaps there was something she could do.

            The pearls slipped from her fingers to be lost in the space between floorboards. Bury the past but don’t forget it.

            Maybe God was still in this forsaken hellhole after all.


	2. Vocation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. There may seem to be inconsistencies in this story, but I assure you they’re there for a reason.

 

There were good pickings in Cambridge for salvage. It was also full of feral ghouls that made the shortest route to Diamond City dangerous for all but the biggest caravans. So Sparrow picked up MacCready once more and ventured past the abandoned boat and makeshift bridge, Fraternal Post 115 where Nate would have talked that fateful night, and the ruins of C.I.T. They were almost to the police station, her first stop with the likely weapons and tech to be stripped, when they heard the familiar growl of ferals.

            Now Sparrow was better prepared. She had Molotov cocktails and frag grenades, a combat shotgun and a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. So she softened up the horde of ferals charging towards the police station with thrown projectiles as Mac head-shotted the bigger nastier ones. Then a scarlet laser blast turned a shambler into ash and she realised there were fighters in there.

            “Send them back to hell!” roared a gravelly baritone. “For the Brotherhood!”

            “Great, Brotherhood clowns,” Mac muttered. “Can we shoot them and take their stuff?”

            “How about we kill the ferals first?” Sparrow suggested.

            Caught between the anvil and the hammer, the ghouls were decimated and Sparrow let Mac loot them before saying Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8 over the rotting corpses. The flamer fuel she acquired from Diamond City would cremate them nicely once the Brotherhood were dealt with.

            “You okay?” Mac asked with narrowed eyes.

            “I had a long talk with Pastor Clements after we put my mother out of her misery,” Sparrow explained as she emptied the flamer fuel over the corpses. “Most feral ghouls are victims and like anyone else, they deserve last rites.”

            “Uh huh.” Like many Wastelanders, Mac didn’t particularly believe in or care about a higher power. Others were fervent followers of the Old Rite, the New Rite, the Steel Rite or a half-dozen other faiths ranging from Chinese Buddhism to Pentecostal Christianity to varying flavours of paganism. “So long as the Brotherhood don’t shoot us for being inside their perimeter, pray away.”

            “Given that you assisted us, we’re not going to do so immediately,” growled the soldier who’d been using battle-cries earlier as he clunked past the rough barricades in power armour. “Though I have to ask your business here.”

            “Scavenging,” Sparrow answered promptly. “I’m Gilly, he’s Mac.”

            The soldier nodded curtly. “Your assistance is appreciated. I’m Paladin Danse.”

            Mac whistled. “Heard of you. Didn’t you break a deathclaw’s back?”

            Having seen and run from deathclaws, Sparrow eyed the big Paladin with respect.

            “I picked it up so Elder Maxson could gut it,” Danse said humbly. “Now, unless you’re willing to be of further assistance, I need to ask you to leave.”

            “You’re Brotherhood of Steel, correct?” Sparrow asked.

            “I am. I see our reputation precedes us.”

            “Gilly, these guys are assholes,” Mac muttered in poor Irish. “You don’t need to be mixed up with them.”

            “Why do you need our help? Forgive me, but you’re in power armour and are bigger than the pair of us wringing wet.”

            Danse sighed. “I led a seven-soldier team and there’s only three survivors including myself. One of those survivors is injured and needs our medic to tend him. I need to find something that will let us contact our brethren in the south.”

            Sparrow pursed her lips. “I can’t go with you. I’ve promised to be elsewhere later today. But we can clear out a few more ferals for you.”

            The Paladin nodded gravely. “I understand. College Square is infested with them. Before you leave, could you… please give Knight Keane last rites? I’ve had to leave behind too many soldiers without them.”

            “I can do so,” she told him. “Do you mind Old Rite? I know very little on the Steel Rite.”

            “At this rate, I’d almost take the Children of Atom,” Danse said sourly.

            “Get the dead ferals in the courtyard. I’ll pray for them and light a pyre – do you want Knight Keane to be part of it?”

            “No. We can take care of him. He just needs proper last rites. I can coach you in the prayers.” Danse regarded her gratefully. “Are you a priestess?”

            Sparrow shook her head as Mac sighed. “No. Just laying the old world to rest.”

            Knight Keane had died on the top of the barricade and after removing his weapons, Sparrow folded his hands and closed his eyes. Ecclesiastes was still appropriate and she added the Catholic prayer for departed veterans, murmuring it in Latin. By the time she was done, Danse had climbed up to the barricade to help her bring the body down. Knight Rhys and Scribe Haylen, the other two Brotherhood soldiers, joined them at the top of the stairs.

            “Ferrum est revertimini commixtionem fraternitatem. Tu vero metallo ignibus dignum fingitur perditionem. Redeant ad Creatorem, fratrem nostrum et confirma Mors semel.”

            _Return your Steel to the alloy that is the Brotherhood. You were true metal, worthy to be forged in the fires of perdition. Return to the Creator, our Brother, and strengthen the Steel once more._

They murmured the prayer together and when it was done, Danse marked Keane’s forehead with power armour grease.

            “Thank you,” he said as he rose to his feet. “If you can clear out College Square, I’d be grateful.”

            “I’ll see what I can do,” Sparrow said, looking up at the sky. “Good luck, Paladin Danse.”

            “And you, Gilly.” He nodded and turned away to tend to his living soldiers.

            Mac bitched at her through the killing of the ghouls in College Square, which netted them a load of loot from the raiders’ corpses and precious frag mines, and all the way back to Diamond City. Finally, Sparrow turned around and snapped at him, “We were going to kill ghouls and loot the place anyway. Why do you have a problem with me doing it for the Brotherhood?”

            “Because they rule the Capital Wasteland and would kill half of Goodneighbour,” Mac said quietly. “Danse is okay but Lord help the Commonwealth if Maxson ever turns his eyes north. Where the Elder goes, blood and ashes follow.”

            “Well, I wasn’t going to leave a group of people to the ghouls,” Sparrow countered. “And everyone deserves last rites, Mac. Even you.”

            “Ha ha ha. Very funny,” the sniper retorted. “I suppose we’re burning these ones too?”

            “Of course.”

            It was sunset by the time they got back to Diamond City and Mac decided to stay at the Dugout Inn while Sparrow returned to the house where she squatted. Sooner or later she’d have to find somewhere more regular to stay but until then, the western stands would do.

            She was halfway up the ramp when she saw the lights on. Seeing as she didn’t run them…

            Looked like its owner had returned. Or the Mayor had sold it to someone.

            Sparrow sighed and turned away. The Dugout Inn would have two patrons tonight, it seemed.

            But her feet led her to Pastor Clements’ chapel. Everything was so jumbled and confused – Old Rite, New Rite, Steel Rite… She needed to understand the religions of the Wasteland.

            The pastor was out, so Sparrow sat down on the pew with the rosary Clements gave her and began to murmur the appropriate prayers. She had numerous memories of doing this, praying in Irish and Latin, calling on the Lord, Christ, Mary and all the Saints.

            The door to the chapel opened and she looked up – it was a lean, bald man with a scarred face and bleak eyes. He looked vaguely familiar, a fragment from a dreamlike memory, and Sparrow supposed she’d seen him around in Goodneighbour or Bunker Hill, both popular haunts of mercenaries.

            “Old Rite?” he rasped.

            “I am,” she confirmed.

            “Good. I need to make a confession.” The mercenary strode in after closing the door and sat down on the pew next to her.

            “Oh?” Sparrow asked, arching an eyebrow.

            “Yeah.” He sighed. “Unless you’re gonna tell me to fuck off just like every other priest I’ve ever met?”

            “The only thing I’ll tell you is don’t use foul language in a house of the Lord,” she said sharply. “I gave last rites to a bunch of feral ghouls and a Brotherhood soldier today. I don’t make judgment calls.”

            _Much._

The grizzled man looked relieved. “Thank you. I’m not a good man, priestess. I kill men and worse for caps. But I got a mean son of a bitch on my tail and I don’t think I’m gonna come out alive.”

            Sparrow raised an eyebrow. “Do you repent of your sins? I’m not going to murmur some words over you and say you’re back in God’s grace if you’re not sincere about it.”

            “That’s…” He sighed again. “I repent that I married a good woman and had a kid with her, but my enemies killed them because I fucked with the wrong people.”

            “I’m sorry for your loss,” Sparrow told him softly. “I assume you’re interested in absolution so that, if you die soon, you’ll see them again?”

            “…Yeah. Sarah and Mary, their names were. I killed the bastards who killed them, but…”

            “Vengeance belongs to the Lord,” she murmured.

            “Mind telling the asshole hunting me for that? Of course, I did help take his kid.” The mercenary laughed bitterly.

            “If he comes in, I’d tell him that,” Sparrow countered. “Why on Earth would you kidnap a child?”

            “Caps. The Wasteland’s a shitty place.”

            “Really? I hadn’t noticed that.” Sparrow allowed the sarcasm to bleed into her tone. “Did it ever occur to you that the Wasteland’s a bad place because people keep on making it worse instead of trying to make it better?”

            The man’s thin lips quirked to the side. “You’re protected by the Wall, priestess.”

            “And before I moved here _and_ on a regular basis, I don’t have the protection of the Wall. So don’t try that crap with me. Do you or do you not repent of the wrongs you have committed and wish for the grace of the Lord to be extended to you?”

            His eyebrow rose. “Aren’t you supposed to ask about my sins?”

            Sparrow regarded him sardonically. “I’m fairly certain neither of us has a week or so to spare.”

            The mercenary barked a sharp laugh. “If my childhood priest had been like you, I’d be a different man.”

            He looked down at his hands. “Yeah, I repent. I’m gonna find somewhere to hole up and deal with this fucker far from where folks can get hurt. I’m a piece of work but he’s just as bad. His kid… Well, his kid’s better off where he is. I don’t repent that. I only repent not shooting the fucker in the head.”

            “You have to repent _all_ your sins,” Sparrow told him quietly. “Even taking the child, even if he’s in a better place.”

            He sighed and nodded. “Fine. I repent that too.”

            “Sincerely?”

            “Yeah. I ain’t scared of hellfire, priestess. But I am scared I’ll never see Mary and Sarah again, and never tell them I’m sorry.”

            Sparrow regarded him grimly. “Hell is the absence of God, Who is Love Incarnate. Somehow, I think you’ve spent the years since your family’s death already there.”

            “…You’re not far wrong.” He closed his eyes. “I’ve settled my affairs, left a trail for the mongrel to follow me. Maybe if I take him out, I can come back here and think about my life.”

            How bad was the man tracking this mercenary? The hardened veteran sounded resigned and bitter.

            “I’d use the journey to do so,” Sparrow told him. “Do you have anything else to add?”

            “Yeah. Don’t dig too deep in Cambridge, priestess. Not safe for anyone there.”

            Somehow she knew he wasn’t referring to the ferals or the Brotherhood of Steel.

            “I’ll try not to.” She sighed and looked at him. “Tell the Lord you are heartily sick at having offended Him and wish absolution.”

            His prayers were stumbling, the wording strange, but the sentiment was clear in his low gruff voice. Sparrow murmured the words of absolution when he was done and dipped her fingers into the scented water Clements left in a plastic bowl to touch his forehead. She didn’t know if God would hear her but… well… even this man deserved last rites and prayers for his soul.

            When it was done, the mercenary rose to his feet. “Thanks, priestess. Stay safe. Not a lot of good people in this world.”

            He left the chapel and Sparrow rubbed her nose. She’d just lied to a man and he went off thinking he was absolved of his sins.

            “That was well done.” Sparrow looked up and saw Clements emerge from his living quarters. “That mercenary owns the house you were squatting in.”

            “He doesn’t seem to think he’s long for this world.” Sparrow shifted on the pew.

            “His kind never are.” Clements sighed. “But perhaps he will find a different path once this feud is settled.”

            “Or he’ll at least die under grace if he avoids sin,” she added. “I’m, ah, sorry-“

            “For what? You were Old Rite and so was he; explains why he ignored me whenever I tried to talk to him.” Clements took the seat the mercenary had vacated. “I don’t know what being a priest entailed in the Old World but here, you need to know the particular Rite you want to represent, be vouched for by another priest and take vows that you will keep before the Creator.”

            “What kind of vows?” Poverty seemed beside the point as everyone was poor. Pacifism was suicide by another name. She wasn’t particularly suited to celibacy, even if she was getting over Nate abandoning her to look for a child who was dead.

            “Whatever you feel is right, appropriate to your Rite.” Clements smiled a little. “As your spiritual advisor, I’d suggest something along the lines of dealing with feral ghouls and giving the dead last rites. MacCready’s been telling everyone you went off the deep end and found religion.”

            “Mac’s an asshole,” Sparrow said sourly.

            “He is. I believe he also has a sick son back in the Capital Wasteland.”

            Now she felt awful. “I can’t be a priest, Pastor. I’m a bitch.”

            “You are compassionate, perceptive and intelligent.” Clements regarded her calmly. “There’s no one who follows the Old Rite who is recognised as clergy in the Commonwealth, Gealbhan, and I can’t leave Diamond City. I’ll admit I hoped you’d take this path. I just didn’t expect it so soon.”

            One by one, he knocked down her feeble objections. God knew it would give her something to do with her life now that Shaun was dead and her world gone.

            “I need to learn about the different Rites,” she told him. “I’m not comfortable with calling myself a priest just on your say so.”

            Clements nodded with a gentle smile. “It would be my honour. Keep an open mind and heart, Gealbhan, and the Lord will give you guidance.”

            “So be it.” Sparrow looked wryly at the rosary in her hands. “Even if I’m going to be the worst priest ever.”


	3. Ordination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Head-canon for future!Christianity.

 

A week after she helped the Brotherhood soldiers at Cambridge, a large airship sailed across the sky with an announcement that rolled from horizon to horizon like the portent of a storm. Sparrow paused in the middle of a christening and looked upwards just like the parents, the other settlers and the baby itself. Then she finished tracing the cross on the baby’s forehead with hubflower-infused water, the go-to holy water for the Wastelander priest.

            In other places, the rituals might be more elaborate, but the Commonwealth kept things simple. The Eucharist was celebrated with pure water and whatever non-irradiated fruit came to hand, High Masses were a thing of the past, and the Old Rite’s liturgical language seemed to be a mixture of Latin and Irish. The Virgin Mary was considered equal to the Lord and Jesus Christ, the Holy Ghost a faded memory, and women were allowed to be priests and marry. A christening or funeral was worth twenty caps or a night’s stay and two meals. She tended to take the latter as her scavenging from the feral ghouls she laid to rest paid the bills, such as they were, well enough.

            Dinner was tato mash, the late winter staple of the Commonwealth settler, and talk revolved around little Seamus Peter Brannigan’s assurance of heaven if he should die before reaching the age of three, the razorgrain sprouting under the light dusting of snow, and the appearance of the Brotherhood airship. With the Minutemen focused on the northwest, Sparrow knew that the eastern settlements were vulnerable, especially to the Gunners down in Quincy. She wondered if Nate had joined up yet – they seemed like the ruthless mercenary sort he’d get on with. She wondered if he’d been looking for Shaun, when everyone agreed that someone taken by the Institute was dead or as good as.

            Hope was long gone in the Wasteland, even after she’d found faith and a new purpose.

            “I met a Brotherhood team in Cambridge,” she admitted as she scraped her chipped plate and licked her fingers clean. Utensils were a Diamond City thing these days. “They were being besieged by ferals, so I and someone else helped give them some breathing space.”

            Kaylee Brannigan nodded. “What were they like?”

            “Soldiers. My colleague says they don’t like super mutants and ghouls of any description much, and that they rule in the Capital Wasteland. With what I’ve learned of their Steel Rite, it’s very harsh, but they’ve done good things down there.”

            “The traders say they pay fairly for food and offer protection. And anything that reduces the amount of super mutants and ferals is fine in my books.” Kaylee tugged at her brown ponytail.

            “I don’t think they much like sentient ghouls either,” Sparrow said with a sigh.

            “Every one of them could go feral at any time.” William, Kaylee’s husband, shrugged. They were partnered in the age-old ‘shack up and have children together’ tradition. Weddings were also a Diamond City thing unless a priest was around.

            “True. But…” Sparrow shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. My vows cover feral ghouls, not sentient ones.”

            She offered her plate to Kaylee. “Thanks for the meal. I need to make County Crossing before dark.”

            “No worries, priestess. Good to know that Seamus will go to heaven if worst comes to worst.” Kaylee looked down at her sleeping child.

            “God will be looking out for him,” Sparrow promised softly. “His soul, if not his body, is safe.”

            “Good.” Kaylee nodded as Sparrow rose to her feet. “Lord with you.”

            “And you.” She sketched the cross in the air with her fingers, picked up her duffel bag, and left the small tin shack.

            Such was a typical day in the Wasteland.

            Two weeks after she saw the airship arrive, she trudged into Cambridge and saw the police station emblazoned openly with the Brotherhood’s sigil and trained soldiers patrolling the fortifications. Having felt lousy about abandoning Danse and his people, she decided to see how they were going.

            “What’s your business, civilian?” demanded a grizzled veteran as she approached, laser rifle at the ready.

            The shaven-headed, scar-nosed man she vaguely recalled as Knight Rhys lowered the soldier’s weapon with his arm. “Stand down, Proud, she’s helped the Brotherhood in the past.”

            “Good to see you kicking, Knight Rhys. Did Danse and Haylen make it? Did Keane get an appropriate funeral?” Sparrow looked up at the hard-faced man in his orange uniform.

            “Yeah. And the rest of Recon Squad Gladius got eulogies from Elder Maxson himself.” Rhys nodded down at her. “I see you’re wearing your cross today.”

            Sparrow touched her ornate gold cross, a gift from Clements, self-consciously. “I’m in the middle of ordination in the Old Rite now. Hunting ferals and laying the dead to rest puts things in perspective.”

            “Huh. Way you talked Latin, I already figured you were one.” Rhys shrugged. “Want to speak to Danse? He’s around.”

            Sparrow smiled at him. “I’d be glad to. I felt lousy about not being able to help you more, but I had to go somewhere else.”

            The guards stepped aside to allow her into the compound, which had been stripped bare of all debris and reinforced with steel barricades. More power-armoured soldiers than the day the bombs fell patrolled the courtyard and there was a vertibird parked on the roof.

            “Reckoned it was an excuse to leave especially with MacCready in tow,” Rhys said dourly.

            “I actually did have to be back in Diamond City by sundown,” Sparrow countered. “The Wasteland’s bad at night but the ruins of Boston are something worse. And I’ve been warned not to dig too deep in Cambridge.”

            Rhys’ eyebrow rose. “That so?”

            “Yeah. I don’t think the guy who told me was referring to ferals or you lot.”

            The Knight snorted. “Might be hard to believe but the Brotherhood’s actually here to help.”

            “Don’t go too far west or you’ll enter Minutemen territory. At the moment, things are tense in the Commonwealth.” Sparrow sighed and shook her head. “Between what’s already here and the fucking Institute, the last thing we need is a turf war between paramilitary forces.”

            Rhys’ other eyebrow nearly hit his non-existent hairline. “What do you know about the Institute?”

            She met his gaze bleakly. “That the bastards took my baby.”

            “Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathed. “I’m sorry.”

            “Your sympathy is noted but please don’t take His name in vain.” Sparrow hugged herself and looked towards the C.I.T ruins. “If you can bring down the fires of hell on those bastards, I’ll sing your praises to the Lord.”

            “We intend to, priestess.” Rhys led her up into the police station proper.

            Inside, it was clean and mostly repaired, rows of sleeping bags laid down in the next room and Paladin Danse talking to Scribe Haylen. “Hey Paladin,” Rhys told his CO with a salute. “Look who came by to see we’re okay.”

            “Gilly.” Danse nodded curtly in her direction.

            “My full name is Gealbhan Killian,” she told him. “Good to see you’re safe and well.”

            The Paladin nodded again. “You bought us enough time to contact the Brotherhood. What do you think of the Prydwen?”

            “The airship? It interrupted a christening.” Sparrow couldn’t help the wry tone to her voice.

            He chuckled. “I’ll be sure to let Elder Maxson know that.”

            Sparrow recalled Mac’s words about blood and ashes following in the Elder’s wake. “You’re here to deal with the Institute then?”

            Danse’s thick eyebrows rose. “How…?”

            “I didn’t come down in the last radstorm. And they broke into my Vault and took my son.” Sparrow sighed and looked down at her worn boots. “Anyone who’s taken by the Institute is dead. They’re never seen again except as synthetic copies.”

            “When we are done, the Institute will be nothing more than a cautionary tale about the follies of playing God with technology,” Danse vowed softly. “If you’re willing to tell your story, we can add it to our report. Every bit of intel helps.”

            She nodded with another sigh. “I can do that, if you can tell me precisely what your order does. I’ve heard everything from being the Second Coming to blood-soaked conquerors.”

            “Fair enough. And I’m happy to alleviate any concerns about the Brotherhood. We do truly wish to help the Commonwealth.” Danse tried to smile. It was stiff but she appreciated the effort. He was probably too used to being the stern CO for diplomacy.

            It was afternoon by the time she left the Brotherhood base with a better understanding of their mission – as they saw it – and the promise of hospitality any time she wanted. At least she had somewhere to sell any medical or technological salvage she located.

            Pastor Clements was talking to Mr Zwicky and Miss Edna just in front of the chapel as she came in. Sparrow smiled slightly as she remembered telling the Miss Nanny that love was worth it, even in the Wasteland. If an old man and a robot wanted to get married, who was she to say no?

            Before she could go across to them, the unwelcome red leather coat and newsboy cap of Piper Wright appeared before her. “Just the person I want to speak to!” the reporter said firmly.

            “Why, did you want to make a confession?” Sparrow asked her dryly. “Confessional times are ten to twelve in the mornings of every second weekday unless I’m out ministering in the Commonwealth.”

            Piper’s green-hazel eyes widened innocently. “I sleep the sleep of the righteous, Gealbhan Killian.”

            “Pull the other leg. It plays Magnolia’s latest song.”

            “I thought priests were supposed to speak mildly?” Piper folded her arms.

            “Piper, my vows revolve around killing feral ghouls and giving the dead last rites. Diplomacy, like just about everything else, died in the Great War.” Sparrow was just mostly sick of her past being looked into. Spilling her guts to Danse had been painful enough. She didn’t want to do it a second time in one day with the biggest muckraker in the Commonwealth.

            “Yeah, funny you should mention that.” Piper’s eyes narrowed. “Did you give Kellogg last rites?”

            “Who’s Kellogg?”

            “Grizzled merc. The guy whose house you were squatting in for a bit.”

            Sparrow looked at her calmly. “I heard his confession and gave him absolution. Why?”

            “Because I have it on good authority he was working for the Institute until recently.” Piper’s expression was grim. “Then he stole the wrong baby from the wrong Vault and managed to piss off the most ruthless bastard in the Commonwealth.”

            Only years of lawyer training kept Sparrow’s face straight though her entire world shattered. “He didn’t tell me much, Piper. And even if he did, it’s called the sanctity of confession for a reason – it’s not mine to tell.”

            “Huh. You really do take your vows seriously.” Piper sighed and rubbed her nose. “Just watch out. I don’t think Nate Finlay respects the clergy that much.”

            “He doesn’t respect anything other than power and violence,” she said softly before turning away. “Don’t ask me any more questions. I’m not answering them. I can’t lay the old world to rest if I’m dead.”

            The newly married couple departed just as she reached the chapel and Sparrow found a smile for them. Love and faith still existed in the Wasteland even if hope was rather thin on the ground.

            Clements ushered her inside once he saw her expression. “If Piper’s upset you, I’ll go to McDonough and-“

            “Don’t.” Sparrow sat down heavily on the pew. “I just found out that I gave absolution to the man who stole my son and gave him to the Institute.”

            “And?” His voice was gentle.

            “My husband hunted him down and killed him.” Sparrow knuckled at her burning eyes. Kellogg had been so resigned, so accepting of his impending demise. He wanted to see his family again. He was a man with a tragic past who turned to violence out of heartbreak and despair.

            “There are those who would call that justice,” Clements said carefully.

            “That isn’t justice. That’s vengeance.” She looked up at her mentor despairingly. “My son is in the Institute and he’s alive.”

            “I would say that while there’s life, there’s hope, but when the Institute is involved…” The pastor sighed. “I’ve heard of Nate Finlay. A very violent and dangerous man.”

            “That doesn’t describe the half of it, Clements.” Sparrow shuddered in a paroxysm of grief and horror. “Nate’s a bastard to those he doesn’t know if they’re not useful. I can only imagine what he did to Kellogg before he died.”

            “You pity Kellogg?”

            “I _empathise_ with him. He pissed off the wrong people and his family was murdered. He was contrite and deliberately chose to lead Nate to a location where collateral damage would be little to non-existent.” Sparrow closed her eyes against the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. “I told the Brotherhood I hope they bring down the fires of hell on the Institute today. And now I’ve learned my son is alive and that a man whose despair I only understood too well is the reason why he might die if they succeed in doing so.”

            “Knowing what you do now, would you have denied Kellogg absolution?” Clements asked gently.

            “No.” The answer slipped out through her lips. “I might have shot the bastard directly afterwards, but I would have given him absolution and last rites.”

            “And to think a few people doubted you were of the Irish clans…” Clements’ tone was half-wry, half-chiding.

            “So was Nate.”

            “True enough.” Clements sighed. “There’s a reason why vengeance belongs to the Lord, Gealbhan. According to the New Rite, China launched the nukes for the sake of vengeance after they were defeated in Alaska. From what I’ve heard of Nate Finlay, his vengeance will soak the Commonwealth in blood and tears before he is done.”

            Sparrow lowered her head. “I lost hope.”

            “We all lose hope. Will your husband listen to you if you counsel justice over vengeance?”

            Sparrow’s bitter laugh was answer enough.

            “We have Finlay, this Arthur Maxson, the Gunners and raiders and Triggermen…” Clements’ tone was sad. “All the lords of war wanting a slice of the Commonwealth.”

            “There’s the Minutemen in the northwest,” she pointed out.

            “…True. But they don’t have their Castle and the artillery it once held.”

            “I’ve heard good things about this Garvey.” Sparrow sighed and wiped at her eyes. “I don’t have any answers, Clements. Nate left me behind because I was useless to him. I’ve just found a place and purpose. I can’t even hate the bastard who took our baby.”

            Her mentor reached out and touched her arm sympathetically. “Then go on and do as you’ve done. Sow compassion instead of hatred. Justice instead of vengeance. Bury the old world and make the Commonwealth a safer place. Perhaps you will find the answers you need.”

            “And if I don’t?”

            “Then know you’ve saved some lives and done some good. It’s all we can do in this lifetime.” Clements reached out and took her hand to wrap her fingers around the cross. “You’re ready to call yourself a priestess in my eyes.”

            She felt the gold warm beneath her fingers and nodded. She buried Sparrow Finlay and stepped fully into the new identity she’d made for herself. She wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t ready.

            But she was Gealbhan Killian, priestess of the Old Rite, hunter of feral ghouls and a survivor of the Great War. No longer someone’s daughter, someone’s wife, someone’s mother. Just herself, perhaps as she was meant to be.

            Amen, now and forever.


End file.
